


for one that breaks (the runners) loose

by fadeoutin (orphan_account)



Category: Call of the Wild - Jack London
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-30
Updated: 2010-12-30
Packaged: 2017-10-14 05:34:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/145920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/fadeoutin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>he has done his work; he has earned mastery over another.</p>
            </blockquote>





	for one that breaks (the runners) loose

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Vnutrenni](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vnutrenni/gifts).



he wakes to monochrome—the sky stretched out in pale, translucent gray from the half-open window; his fur in patches of dark and light, staring back at him from the cool, reflective surface of the tin kettle. wind whips at the window flap, swinging until it snaps against the glass. _thwap_ it goes as his ears twitch; _thwap thwap_ while powdery flecks of snowflake blow in through the small opening.

the cot in the corner is empty, blankets turned over and crumpled at the side. (the man is outside, perhaps.) his littermates are half-sprawled, half-curled up around him, one over another in a soft pile of fur and damp noses. the slow, heavy lethargy is fading slowly, along with the effects of the fever that has gripped him for the past handful of days. he blinks once, and then again as a flicker of movement settles upon his muzzle. it makes him sneeze, the familiar, jarring sensation that spreads across his senses confusing and exciting him without reason. the air smells clean;

smells like nothing and a little bit of everything.

the flap snaps again, drawing his attention to the world outside. he uncurls his limbs into a semblance of stability, and yawns, jaws stretching wide showing little sharp teeth. behind him, the others stir, whining in their sleep as if caught up in a rabbit-chasing dream. (they jerk and shift, pawing at the air.)

he shakes himself awake, pads across the room, and peeks out of the square flap cut out of the door.

white; so much of it spread out over the ground. he barks, laughing, and bounds outside, breaking into a run.

-

after a few weeks, the sound of his traces jingling no longer distracts him. he does not understand much, just that those small bits that shine like the sun glinting off a thawed lake must be there for a purpose. some things he must know—to turn when told, to pull hard and fast, to stop.

other things are not as important.

master is a lean whip of a man, long-limbed as a reindeer and not nearly as wide. he barely weighs anything. the sled simply glides through the powder-white snow, a northern bird swooping low on the ground. it feels as if they are pulling air, as they race across the small plain that the river borders.

when the faint outline of the sun curves high, they pull back beside the cabin. he wriggles incessantly as master unhooks him from the line, still brimming with unused energy. the frantic throbbing in his chest takes some time to ease.

it burns with a heat he has come to welcome; one he chases until it flares, white-hot, and then slowly ebbs.

his ears prick up as master’s young nears, but he does not move. he has done his work; he has pulled his master across the plain.

let the human come to him.

master’s young peers into his eyes all friendly-like. the edge of his lip curls up, showing a bit of teeth. he does not think to growl and snap up like the older huskies do—no, there is no need for that here.

-

 _got the devil in ye, don’tcha boy?_

no, he does not understand that either.

-

his fur is damp.

the snow beneath him is hard-packed. there has not been snowfall for days. the trail was good—they did not have to break their own, and they made good time. but the days have begun to blur into one another in a patchwork of colorless shadows. he is unaccustomed to this toil; to breaking camp at dark and pitching camp at dark; to the pound of flesh given, no more.

the pain is fierce, but he can breathe, and does so in soft, quick pants. the air is cold. (cold like the ice that forms over water when the sky starts to fade and the little white flakes fall from above.

snow—soft, when his paws sink into the ground; hard when he races across and never slips.)

his side aches from the beatings that rattled him to the bone (his old master never raised a hand to him); his shoulder torn by the jaws of a comrade that stole his dinner. the other dogs fear them both—the human, and this one they call leader.

he fears neither. there is no reason to. they breathe; they bleed. (the one they call leader always hurts least, but he will find a way. someday.)

this is a new world now. he understands this much: the club is the law; he who wields the club is master, and;

man cannot be trusted.

he shifts from where he is burrowed, angrily biting back the whimper that forms in his gullet. overhead, the clouds part, and the moon shines faintly. the ground almost glows.

his sleep is restless tonight.

-

it happens one last time.

there is no room for pride here. there is only mastery, or submission.

the scent of salt fills is nose. the cawing of the seagulls echoes in his ears. but he hears the shuffling of snow, the huffing of a dog, and tenses. it is _he_.

perhaps today is the day.

he senses the movement before it happens, and explodes—

a writhing, growling mass of claw and fang. his rage brims, bitter and tasting of blood, crying for him to rush first.

but he has learned from watching, from studying the mastery of ill-tamed wolves. he waits; does not hurry to draw first blood. the others crowd in a tight circle. silent, with their eyes hungry and their tongues lolling. they know what will happen tonight, know that one of their own will be rend from throat to loin.

though they know not which one.

his rival bores easily. (it is not a surprise—he had been anticipating such.) the attack is swift, a flash of dappled white to the throat. he counters with a snap, teeth sharp as a steel trap, closing upon an ear.

(the blood is heady and warm. it excites him like nothing before.)

another lunge, barely fought off. soon, he is panting hard. his jaw aches; his shoulder is slashed. the other’s is in ribbons.

the circle draws closer; blood, smeared black, against the snow. he sees it seconds before, and rushes. his rival evades, but does not realize until it is too late. the hard-packed snow has become slippery with the thick, dark liquid. he slips.

spitz is there to finish him off—

and then he is gone, beneath a pile of rippling fur.

-

(the whaling captain has a firm hand and a rough voice. aboard his vessel, the smell of salt is sharper, and there are traces of blood tucked into the corners of its curved walls.

a slab of flesh is slapped onto the floor beside him, and he devours it within seconds. the taste is good. for this, he allows the captain to scratch behind his ears.

he has done his work; he has earned mastery over another.

let the humans come to him.)

 _the end_

**Author's Note:**

> hi vnutrenni,
> 
> call of the wild is one of my favorite books (of all time), so i was very excited when i got your request. i tried to make the whole thing feel as sparse and dog!pov as possible, it probably took more time to cut parts than it did to write the whole thing! :D the style is different from what i'm used to--you could call it an experiment. thusly, i am quite nervous.
> 
> but i hope you like it!
> 
> discussion of fic [here](http://fadeoutin.livejournal.com/35858.html) (on livejournal).


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